


I Need You

by telperion_15



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Drama, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-12
Updated: 2010-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/pseuds/telperion_15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn and Boromir's relationship undergoes a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Change Of Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remaining members of the Fellowship head towards Minas Tirith. But Boromir seems precoccupied...

Boromir sat down heavily on a tree root. The intrusion into his mind by Galadriel had left him shaken and unsure. He buried his head in his hands, willing the pictures that flashed through his mind to disappear. At the crack of a twig he stiffened and looked around. Aragorn was standing there, watching him. But Boromir was surprised to see none of the hostility that usually darkened his gaze. Aragorn was looking at him with something almost like compassion. Boromir tuned away. He didn’t need Aragorn’s pity. A slight creak told him that Aragorn had sat down next to him.

“You should take some rest,” said the Ranger. “These borders are well protected.”

“I will find no rest here,” Boromir replied bitterly. “I heard her voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, even now there is hope left. But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope. My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And then our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right, and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored. Have you ever seen it Aragorn? The white tower of Ecthelion? Glimmering like a spike of burning silver, its banner caught high in the morning breeze. Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”

Aragorn had noticed Boromir’s discomfort at his first meeting with Galadriel. He reached out a hand and squeezed Boromir’s shoulder gently, offering comfort in the only way he knew how. “I have seen the white city, long ago,” he said.

Boromir felt Aragorn’s hand on his shoulder and heard his words. He felt oddly comforted, knowing that someone else understood him. He looked around at Aragorn. “One day our paths will lead us there. And the tower guard will take up the call. For the Lords of Gondor will have returned.”

For a second Aragorn was startled. Boromir’s contempt for his claim to the throne of Gondor was no secret, and Aragorn had thought that it had built up a wall between them that could never be breached. But Boromir had seemingly forgotten all that, and was including Aragorn in the nobility of his city. Aragorn’s grip tightened slightly, letting the other man know that he appreciated the gesture, and what it must have cost him. They sat like that for some time, until footsteps announced the approach of an intruder. Unwilling to let their peace be shattered by another, Aragorn himself ended it by standing up and moving away from Boromir. “As I said,” he threw back over his shoulder, “you should try to get some rest.

* * * * *

As the Fellowship packed up to leave Lothlorien, Aragorn watched Boromir closely. He could see that their time in the elf-kingdom, whilst beneficial to everyone else, had adversely affected the man of Gondor. He did not seem to be able to settle, and it saddened Aragorn to see Boromir becoming day by day more haggard and tired. He had some idea what was wrong. Indeed, it would hardly be possible to miss the frequency with which Boromir’s eyes strayed to Frodo, and the hungry, longing look that appeared in them when they did. The Ring was exercising its full influence on Boromir, and there was nothing Aragorn could do to stop it.

Several days later the Fellowship reached Parth Galen and the Falls of Rauros. The time had now arrived for Aragorn to make the decision he had been dreading ever since they had left Moria. They – he – had to choose whether the Fellowship should carry on down the river to Minas Tirith, or whether they should leave the river and go east, to Mordor. He sat, deep in thought, next to the boat, paying no heed to the activity that went on around him. Suddenly a voice intruded upon his thoughts.

“Where’s Frodo?” asked Merry.

Aragorn jumped up. Where was Frodo? And then he saw something that chilled his blood. Leaning up against a tree was Boromir’s shield. But of Boromir there was no sign either. Aragorn set off running. He vaguely heard Merry and Pippin dash off in another direction, yelling Frodo’s name, but his one thought was to get to Boromir before he caused his own destruction.

* * * * *

He reached out, clawing at Frodo’s neck. The Ring was so close. It would be his, it belonged with him. Then he felt himself being pulled backward, off of Frodo, and he yelled in frustration. His hand went to his sword and as he drew it he swung around to face his assailant. It was Aragorn. “Draw!” snarled Boromir.

“I will not fight you, Boromir,” replied Aragorn simply. “You are not yourself. It would be wrong.”

Boromir lunged forward, and Aragorn stepped swiftly out of the way. Unable to stop himself, Boromir tripped and fell. He groaned softly and his body went limp. Aragorn went over to him and gently drew his sword from his hand. Boromir offered no resistance, and as Aragorn leaned down he could hear the other man sobbing.

“What have I done?!” gasped Boromir. “Aragorn, what have I done?”

“You are not to blame, Boromir,” said Aragorn. “You were under a powerful influence – something that would have affected us all in the end. Frodo,” he continued, turning to the hobbit. But Frodo was not there. “Frodo!” cried Aragorn, looking wildly around.

Boromir struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily. “He has gone,” he said dully.

Aragorn looked at Boromir, and understanding dawned. “You mean he has left us – gone to Mordor alone,” he said. He paused, lost in thought. “Perhaps it is for the best,” he said at last. “The Fellowship can no longer protect Frodo. We must choose a new path.” Boromir nodded. Aragorn looked into his eyes and felt a chill. They were completely blank – all the life had drained out of them. “Boromir,” he said softly.

Boromir looked up and smiled, but the expression still did not reach his eyes. “A new path,” he repeated. “We must find the others,” he said.

The two men made their way back down to the shore. Legolas, Gimli, Merry and Pippin were all standing by the boats.

“Aragorn!” cried Legolas. “Where is Frodo?”

Aragorn looked at Boromir, but Boromir was gazing out listlessly over the water. “He has gone – to Mordor,” he replied.

“Sam is not here either,” said Merry. “Surely he has not gone too!”

“I believe he has,” said Aragorn. “Frodo will need him. It is a dangerous quest they have gone on, and friendship will help them on their road.”

“But we must go after them!” cried Pippin.

“No, Pippin,” said Aragorn. “We can no longer be of aid to Frodo and Sam. I had thought that my decision when we reached this place would be difficult, but it seems it has been made for me. Our path now leads to Minas Tirith.” He looked over at Boromir to see if his words had registered, but Boromir had not moved. “We cannot however continue down-river. Orcs guard both Cair Andros and the remains of Osgiliath. These are obstacles too great for us to overcome. We must leave the river and travel overland. We will be hindered by the many mouths of the River Entwash, but the way is less dangerous for so small a company. We will leave the boats and unnecessary baggage here – we must travel light and make all possible speed.”

As they sorted what remained of the baggage, Legolas drew Aragorn aside. “What is wrong with Boromir?” he asked.

“He succumbed to the influence of the Ring,” said Aragorn quietly. “But he is not to blame for his actions. His recovery will be slow. Perhaps returning home to his father will help.”

* * * * *

For the next few days the Fellowship trudged along in a damp, misty world. As Aragorn had said, the mouths of the Entwash indeed proved a hindrance. The entire area was one great marsh, and every so often the group would find themselves brought to a halt by yet another channel of water, which required careful fording or wading. Their progress was also hindered by Merry and Pippin, who found the going hard on ground that threatened to swallow them to their waists, and by Boromir. He seemed to have detached himself from the world around him. He would obey Aragorn’s gently given instructions, but when asked a question he just smiled vaguely and went back to gazing off into the distance. He walked along as if in a trance, and no amount of encouragement could make him move faster.

After six days the ground grew firmer, and Aragorn knew they were coming to the end of the marsh. The next stage of the journey involved crossing the plain of Anorien to the road. Aragorn was unwilling to expose the Fellowship by using the road, but he knew that they needed to reach Minas Tirith as soon as possible and they would only be on the road for a short stretch. As they travelled Aragorn watched Boromir, hoping that as they neared his home city his spirits would revive. But Boromir remained exactly the same. Aragorn watched him with increasing worry. Every evening when they stopped to rest he sat down next to Boromir and talked to him, trying to draw him out with a stream of inconsequential chatter, telling him about his adventures in the wilderness, his friendship with Gandalf, reminding him of Merry and Pippin’s antics during the day, hoping against hope to get some reaction from the other man. Finally, one evening as they were nearing Minas Tirith, something happened. After relating yet more stories about his past Aragorn fell silent. Boromir had not moved once since they had sat down, and Aragorn began to despair that he would ever recover, would ever show any emotion, whether good or bad, again.

“Boromir,” he said softly. “I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you. I know you’re hurting very much, but please try to come back to us.” But Boromir just sat, gazing vacantly into the distance. Deep inside Aragorn something stirred. He grabbed Boromir by the shoulders, pulling him around to face him. “Damn you Boromir, why won’t you listen to me? What happened is not your fault. Try and understand that. You cannot behave like this for the rest of your life. There are people who need you. Your father needs you. The Fellowship needs you. I need you.” Abruptly, Aragorn stood up and walked away. He hadn’t meant to go that far, he hadn’t meant to say that last part, but he had been so desperate to provoke a reaction that he had got carried away. What he had said was the truth, but it should never have been spoken.


	2. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn is not the only one with a confession to make...

Boromir stirred. For many days now he had been walking along in a dull, misty world, and it was as if that mist had suddenly lifted. The only thing he had been aware of was the constant presence of Aragorn, always near him. The Ranger had provided Boromir with a very tenuous link to the outside world. He had been aware that Aragorn spoke to him every evening, but he had not listened to the words. It was only the simple fact that Aragorn was there that had kept Boromir from slipping away completely. But on the night in question, something changed. Boromir felt as if a flame had jumped to life in his soul. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and looked over at where Aragorn was standing, back turned, head bowed.

“Aragorn?” he said. Aragorn froze, and then turned slowly around to face him. “You need me?” Boromir asked simply.

Aragorn looked uncomfortable. “Forget what I said,” he replied. “What matters is that you’re here, with…us, not adrift inside your head.”

“No, Aragorn,” said Boromir, standing up and walking over to him. “I won’t forget what you said. If you hadn’t said it, I would still be sitting on that log vacantly gazing out to the horizon. What I want to know is: did you mean it?” Aragorn tried to turn away, but it was Boromir’s turn to hold him by the shoulders. “Did you mean it?” he repeated.

Reluctantly, Aragorn looked into Boromir’s eyes. For the first time in nearly two weeks emotion was stirring in them, and something about that emotion gave Aragorn the confidence to proceed.

“Yes,” he said. “I meant it. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever meant anything more in my life. No, let me finish,” he continued, as Boromir opened his mouth to speak. “Ever since we left Lorien, I have felt that something was different between us, like a rift had been healed. At first I thought it was just because we had a new found respect for one another, since you had acknowledged…who I am. But talking to you, getting to know you better, showed me that it was more than that. When I saw what was happening at Amon Hen…” Boromir flinched slightly, but didn’t say anything… “I am ashamed to say that my thoughts were with you rather than with Frodo. I was more concerned with preventing you from doing yourself harm than with saving Frodo and the Ring. At that moment I knew that you were the most important thing in the world to me, and when I saw what that experience had done to you it nearly killed me. But I couldn’t let it show. I’ve had to be strong for the others. I needed your strength to help me through, but ironically you were the one person who couldn’t help me. Over these past two weeks I’ve felt myself failing day by day. I’ve been so worried about you, thinking about what would happen to you if you never recovered. I couldn’t bear to see you like that, compared to what you had been. I realise that such subjects would have been the last thing on your mind over the past few days. I’m just glad you’re all right – I don’t expect anything from you.” Aragorn stopped talking. He seemed utterly exhausted by his confession, and sank down on to the ground, holding his head in his hands.

Boromir was amazed. He had thought that Aragorn had felt only friendship for him, he had not known the other man’s feelings ran so deep. He knelt down beside Aragorn, clasping his hands in his own. “I am so sorry,” he said. “For you bear this burden all by yourself must have been terrible. What I did almost destroyed everything, but you stopped me, you saved me. But did I show you any gratitude? No. I was selfish. There was no need for my behaviour, such as it was. What you must have gone through…”

“Boromir, what happened wasn’t your fault,” said Aragorn tiredly. “Such a malign influence would have done the same to anyone. You do not need to show me any gratitude – you don’t owe me anything.” He turned away again, unwilling to let Boromir see the despair and misery that he knew was showing in his face. For one brief moment he had thought that Boromir reciprocated his feelings, but the other man obviously felt only guilt, unnecessary as it was.

“Aragorn, you misunderstand me,” said Boromir, pulling the other man back towards him. “In recent weeks, I have felt the same change in our relationship as you have, but other…influences…kept me from examining that change closely. Since that day back at Amon Hen, you have been like a guiding beacon to me, the only thing that has kept me going. Your presence was a source of constant comfort to me, although I couldn’t show it. When you said what you said earlier, it gave me something to live for again, knowing you felt like that.” He smiled wryly. “I cannot articulate myself as you can. What I’m trying to say is that…I need you too.”

Aragorn had not looked at Boromir the whole time he had been talking, and Boromir now felt him tense in his grip. When he finally looked up, Boromir was shocked to see just how exhausted he looked, how much the strain of the past two weeks had taken a toll on him.

“Do you really mean it?” Aragorn asked, throwing Boromir’s earlier question back at him.

“Yes,” replied Boromir. He pulled Aragorn to him, pressing his lips lightly to the other man’s, and wrapping his arms around him, wanting to share some of his new found strength, to relieve the burden Aragorn had been carrying for so many days.

Aragorn sighed softly, and sunk his head on to Boromir’s shoulder. For the first time in many days he felt at peace, things were as they should be. His confession had cost him a lot, knowing as he had then – was it really only minutes ago? – that it would be useless. But he had been wrong. Boromir felt the same way, and Aragorn felt his spirit lighten and the tension drain from his body. He knew that there were dangerous and difficult times ahead for all of them, but sitting here in Boromir’s embrace made all that seem as a distant cloud on the horizon.

* * * * *

“What are they talking about?” Merry wondered aloud.

“Who knows?” replied Pippin. “But it must be really interesting, whatever it is.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes slightly as he watched the two men walking along in front of him. They were walking very close together, and were deeply involved in a conversation, punctuated every now and then by a laugh from one of them. When Aragorn and Boromir had returned to the camp the night before, there had been much joy in the group that Boromir was all right again. Gimli and the two hobbits seemed anxious to talk to him, although they were careful not to mention the cause of his recent problem. But Legolas, after congratulating Boromir on his recovery, had sat slightly off to one side, and surveyed the scene, watching Aragorn and Boromir. He had noted how often their eyes strayed to one another, and the slight smiles that curved their lips every time they did so. Boromir looked very happy, as well he might, but to Legolas it seemed that Aragorn had undergone a more remarkable change. He seemed much more relaxed, more so, indeed, than he had been ever since the Fellowship left Rivendell. It was as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and the haunted, sometimes despairing look that Legolas had seen in his eyes on previous occasions was gone. It was as if his tough exterior had slipped a little, revealing the vulnerability that lurked beneath the surface. Legolas felt he knew what was going on and he was happy that Aragorn and Boromir’s relationship was on such good terms. He only hoped it wouldn’t prove to be a problem in the future.

The group was on their last day of the journey to Minas Tirith. Already they were travelling through the pastures and fields, and in the far distance the Rammas Echor, the wall that surrounded the Pelennor, could be seen. Despite travelling on the road, they had not met any enemies, although the ever-present shadow of the mountains of Mordor away on their left was a constant reminder of what they had still to achieve.

By mid-afternoon, they were inside the Rammas Echor and halfway across the Pelennor. Rounding the final spur of land jutting out into the plain, the city of Minas Tirith came into sight. Aragorn stopped. It was long since he had been here, but Boromir was right – the Tower of Ecthelion did glimmer like a spike of burning silver in the sunlight.

Finally they reached the city gates. Boromir was recognised by the guards, and the gates at once opened. As they did so, a fanfare of trumpets rang out, a sign that a member of the family of Stewards was returning home – something else Boromir had been right about.

As the gates opened, Boromir stepped over the threshold into his city, the others following him. Aragorn, however, hung back. He knew that as the Heir of Isildur he had a right to enter the city, but he did not wish to intrude. Boromir had accepted Aragorn’s claim to the throne, but it had not been openly declared, and he did not know if Boromir’s father would welcome him so readily. Boromir noticed Aragorn’s hesitation and turned back.

“What is the matter?” he asked. “What troubles you?”

Aragorn sighed. “Much as I know that I belong here, I do not feel it in my heart – not yet,” he replied. “Your father may not look kindly on my appearance.”

“My father will welcome you,” said Boromir. “He is a proud and strong-minded man, but he will not deny your right to be here. It has long been thought that the line of Kings would never rise again, but you are the true Heir of Isildur, and you do belong here.” All this had been said quietly enough that only Aragorn could hear, and the Ranger smiled his thanks for the reassurance. “Besides,” continued Boromir in a louder voice. “I’m not going anywhere without you. You are needed.” Aragorn smiled again at the deliberate reference to the previous night. “But if you really want to spend another night sleeping on the ground, I have no objections.”

Aragorn laughed. “Boromir, you have persuaded me,” he said. “Even a Ranger needs the comfort of a soft bed every once in a while!”

* * * * *

The six friends made their way up through the city of Minas Tirith, until they found themselves standing in the courtyard at the foot of the White Tower. A tower guard, dressed in sable and silver, admitted them to the throne room inside the tower. As they entered, Merry and Pippin gazed around them in awe, visibly nervous. Legolas and Gimli both appeared calm, not betraying any underlying feelings. Aragorn still felt as if he did not belong, and assumed a grave expression as Boromir led them to the dais at the far end of the room. There sat Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and Boromir’s father. Boromir knelt before him.

“Father,” he said. “I have returned.”

“Welcome, my son,” replied Denethor. He looked pleased to see Boromir, but his tone was somewhat cold, betraying his proud and haughty nature. “And who are these whom you have brought with you?”

Boromir stood, and made the appropriate introductions. “This is Legolas, son of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood. And Gimli, son of Gloin, from the Kingdom of Erebor. These two are Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. They are Halflings from the Shire, of which the ancient tales speak. And this is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” Aragorn noticed that Boromir did not add an appendix to his introduction. However, it was hardly necessary, as Denethor’s eyes narrowed instantly on hearing his name. Aragorn’s feeling of intrusion increased, but Denethor had already moved on to other matters, dismissing Aragorn and his identity with a single disdainful look.

“And what of Mithrandir?” he asked. “Where has the Grey Wanderer wandered to now?”

Boromir looked uncomfortable. “He was lost to us in the Mines of Moria. Overcome in a terrible battle with an ancient force too terrible for any of us to defeat.”

“I am sorry,” said Denethor. But he did not look sorry, and Aragorn could tell that he was anxious to learn of other, more influential matters. The Steward raised his voice to address all six of them. “You are all welcome in the city of Minas Tirith,” he said. “Guest quarters will be made up for all of you, and you will be allowed to wander the public places of the city freely. But now I wish to speak to my son alone. We have much to discuss.”

Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, and Pippin were led back out of the hall. As he reached the doors, Aragorn looked back over his shoulder to where Boromir and his father were standing. Boromir flashed him an encouraging smile, filled with love, and Aragorn returned it with one of his own, not wanting to worry his companion. However, he noticed that Denethor had seen the exchange, and his eyes were again narrowed as he watched Aragorn exit the hall.


	3. Out Of Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn feels like an intruder in Boromir's world.

When his five friends had left the hall, Boromir turned back to Denethor. “It is good to see you father,” he said. “We have suffered many trials on our journey, and I am glad to be home.”

“And what of the purpose of your journey?” Denethor asked. “What of Isildur’s Bane?”

“It has continued on its journey,” Boromir replied. “In the hands of two Halflings it has gone to the land of Mordor.”

“Then it has been sent into the very hands of the enemy!” Denethor cried. “To the destruction of us all! Did I not counsel you to bring the Ring back to Minas Tirith, so it might be used against the Dark Lord, instead of by him?”

“I did try, father,” said Boromir. “But it was wrong of me to do so. You say that the Ring has been sent into the hands of the enemy? Then if we do fall to the Dark Lord, it will be my fault.”

Denethor looked at his son, angry and amazed. “I do not understand you,” he said.

“I tried to take the Ring from its bearer by force,” said Boromir, the misery of that day returning to him with its full force. “If I had succeeded, it would have meant my destruction, and eventually the downfall of us all. Such an action would have had no benefit to anyone. It was only by Aragorn that I was saved.”

The look of anger on Denethor’s face suddenly disappeared and was replaced by one of cold contempt. “Aragorn,” he said, a sneer curling his lips. “Yes, my son, I recognised the name as soon as you spoke it. Him, the Heir of Isildur? A weather-beaten, bedraggled Ranger? His claim is meaningless.”

Boromir was shocked. Everything in the land of Gondor was done in the King’s name, although none knew if the King would ever return. He had been sure that Denethor would accept Aragorn’s claim, as he had done. How could he fail to see the kingly look in Aragorn’s face, the royal blood that flowed in his veins? “But father…” he began.

“Do you contradict me?” asked Denethor furiously. “You accept this man’s claims?” He looked closely at Boromir. “No,” he continued in a soft, dangerous tone of voice. “There is more to it than that. You have feelings for this man. He is more to you than just a travelling companion, I see.”

“And what if he is?” replied Boromir, lifting his head and looking directly into his father’s eyes. “If it were not for him, I would not be here. You would have an empty shell for a son. You should be grateful to him.”

“Grateful?” said Denethor. “I think not. He deserves no such distinction from me. I will join with Sauron before I accept him as my ruler.”

Boromir gaped, but his shock quickly turned to anger. “I will not hear him spoken of like that,” he said. “It seems that you and I will not agree on this subject, father. I bid you good day.” He turned on his heel and walked out of the hall, intent on finding Aragorn.

* * * * *

Aragorn threw himself down on the bed in the guest quarters he had been shown to. The comfortable mattress was indeed a welcome change to the hard ground, but it didn’t make up for his feeling of unease now that he was inside the walls of Minas Tirith. He knew that here was the best place to be in light of the coming danger, but he knew that he wasn’t welcome. Denethor’s words had belied his true feelings on the subject. Aragorn knew that even now the Steward would be trying to persuade his son that Aragorn was an interloper, a usurper. He knew Boromir well enough to know that he would never agree with such an accusation, but Aragorn was afraid that saying such things, along with talking of the Ring – a subject that was sure to be discussed – would injure Boromir’s recovery from his ordeal. He sighed and got up off the bed. He had thought that a few home comforts would soothe his troubled mind and aching body, but instead he just felt confined. A walk and some air would allow him to straighten out his thoughts. Picking up his cloak and swinging it over his shoulders, he left the room.

Boromir walked through the lowest level of the city. He had been searching for Aragorn for several hours now, and he was growing worried. He knew that Aragorn was uncomfortable in Minas Tirith, and his father’s cold welcome couldn’t have escaped his notice. Dusk was gathering when Boromir finally reached the city gates. The gatekeepers were just about to close them for the night, but Boromir asked them to wait for a few minutes while he had a look outside.

He found Aragorn sitting on a boulder by the side of the road, gazing absently up at the stars. He didn’t appear to have noted Boromir’s approach, and started slightly when the other man touched him gently on the shoulder. He looked up at Boromir and smiled tiredly. “You should come back inside the city now,” said Boromir. “The gates are being shut for the night, and it is dangerous to be left outside, especially now.”

“I don’t feel at home in there, Boromir,” Aragorn replied. “I know I have a right to be here, but it feels wrong. Until my claim is formally acknowledged, I feel as if I’m somehow usurping your father’s rule.” He looked up at Boromir again, and was surprised to see his face suffused with anger.

“How ironic,” said Boromir. “That you should choose the same name for yourself as my father has already given you.” He crouched down beside Aragorn. “My father called you a usurper, and interloper, and dismissed your claim to the throne without a second thought.” He saw that Aragorn was gazing at him apprehensively, and his expression softened. “You know that isn’t what I think,” he continued. “But I see now what my behaviour toward you before we reached Lothlorien must have been like, and it makes me ashamed to be my father’s son.” He slipped his arms around Aragorn, embracing him warmly. “When the horror of this dangerous time is over, your claim will be recognised,” he murmured softly. “And any who don’t will have me to answer to.” Gently he pressed his lips to Aragorn’s, and Aragorn returned the gesture, sure in the knowledge that Boromir believed in him and cared for him.

Their happy reverie was interrupted by the sound of a galloping hoofbeats drawing quickly nearer. Boromir stood, peering into the gloom, trying to discern who the rider was. “It is a messenger from the Rangers of Ithilien,” he said. “This can only bring ill-tidings for us all.” He accosted the rider as he drew level with them. “Hail, soldier of Gondor. I am Boromir, son of Denethor. What news do you bring from Ithilien?”

The rider reigned in his horse sharply. “Boromir, you say?” he inquired. “It should have been a happy day that you returned to us, sir, but I bring grave news from the borders of Mordor. I must see the Lord Denethor. A mighty host has issued from the gates of Minas Morgul, and is even now making its way towards Minas Tirith. The garrison of Osgiliath, with help from the Rangers, are holding the river crossing as long as they can, but their retreat is imminent. The day we have long feared is upon us at last.” With that, he spurred his horse on and rode into the city. Aragorn and Boromir hurried after him. Minas Tirith itself had a mighty army, but help would be needed if it was to hold off the forces of Mordor. Both of their thoughts turned to Frodo and Sam, somewhere in that accursed land. Hope was fading, but they knew that their best chance lay with the destruction of the Ring, and the downfall of Sauron.

* * * * *

The muster of the army of Minas Tirith began right away, and continued well into the night. Men were dressed in their armour, cavalry horses were made ready, and weapons were sharpened and tended. Boromir seemed to be in several places at once, seeing that orders from his father were carried out, and lending a hand where it was necessary. Men exchanged surprised looks at his offers of help. Before he left, Boromir had been known to be almost as proud and cold as his father, but now he had a word of encouragement and companionship for everyone. Aragorn was proud of him, but kept out of the way as much as possible. He did not require armour or a horse and Anduril was the only weapon he needed. However, he also wished to escape the inquisitive eyes of the soldiers. Rumour had spread about his presence in the city, and when the men weren’t expressing their surprise at the change in Boromir, they were speculating about the stranger with a claim to the throne who had suddenly appeared in their midst. Boromir noticed Aragorn’s absence and was saddened to see that he was still not at ease in Minas Tirith. He desperately wanted to see Aragorn before the army was ready to move out, but he was kept busy, and had no time to find him.

Two hours before midnight the garrison of Osgiliath returned to Minas Tirith. As the messenger had reported, they had held the river crossing as long as they could, but had eventually been overwhelmed. Their news was disheartening. The host of Mordor was much larger than previously thought, and the men from Osgiliath estimated that the army of Minas Tirith would be outnumbered by five-to-one. The army was to move out at midnight, and shortly before that time Denethor called his son to his room.

“Despite the softening of your heart, you have done well to bring the army to readiness in so short a time,” he said with barely concealed contempt. Boromir said nothing. He stood straight and still in front of his father, determined not to be angered by him. “But it will all be in vain,” Denethor continued is a somewhat more subdued voice. “We will be overcome. The host of Mordor will defeat Minas Tirith. There will be no victory.”

Boromir looked at his father in surprise and shock. He had never known Denethor to be so negative and unwilling to listen as he was on this day. Something had changed while he had been away. “Father, how can you say such a thing?” he asked. “Surely the odds are against us, but the men are brave and true of heart. They will not quail in front of this host, and will always strive for victory no matter how hopeless the cause.”

Denethor gave a short bark of laughter. “You are deluding yourself!” he replied. “This is his doing. He has changed you beyond recognition. You are not the son I once had – you are a fool.” So saying, Denethor rose and swept out of the chamber.

Boromir watched him leave with cold, hard eyes. His ears rang with the taunts directed at Aragorn. “No father,” he said softly. “It is you who are the fool.”


	4. Against All Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The army of Minas Tirith engages Mordor, but victory comes at a price...

At midnight the gates of Minas Tirith opened, and the army began its march out on to the Pelennor. Rank upon rank of soldiers in gleaming silver and sable armour passed out of the city, and arrayed themselves on the plain. In the distance could be seen the red fires of the host of Mordor. They had made camp at the far side of the Pelennor, nearer to the river. They seemed disinclined to attack in darkness, and rather than encouraging Boromir, it made him uneasy. Orcs were well known to prefer the hours of night, and the fact that these were waiting for daylight made him wonder just how much stronger the army of the enemy was. However, he would not make the first move. Attacking the enemy so far from the city would leave Minas Tirith virtually unguarded if the enemy was to somehow circle around to the rear. He wanted to be near enough to defend his home if necessary. So Boromir halted his army a short distance from the gates, and a waiting game began.

As the sky paled towards dawn, Boromir’s unease grew. The growing daylight revealed the true might of the host of Mordor, and, despite Boromir’s earlier words to his father, the hearts of many of the men quailed at such a sight. But Boromir’s unease stemmed from quite a different source. He had not seen Aragorn for many hours now, and he was growing worried. He knew that Aragorn would be somewhere in the mass of men that surrounded him, ready to do his part to defend the city that was his by right, although he did not believe it. Boromir knew in his heart of hearts that this day might be his last, and he wanted to see Aragorn before battle was joined, wanted to reassure him once and for all that he cared for him and believed in him. But Aragorn was nowhere to be seen, and Boromir could not leave his post.

Finally, as the sun showed its rim over the eastern horizon, the army of Minas Tirith watched the fires of the enemy go out, and knew that the battle was near at hand. Boromir spoke to his captains, and had them rally their companies. As the sun rose fully over the mountains of Mordor, a crescendo of sound in the distance told him that the host of Mordor was on the move. Boromir surveyed his army, and in that moment he was proud of them. He knew that if they fell to Mordor on this day, it would not be because they had failed to try. The soldiers watched with impassive faces as the Black Army drew nearer. When only two hundred yards lay between the two forces, an order issued from an unseen mouthpiece of the enemy.

“Charge!”

“Hold steady!” cried Boromir to his men. For one second he thought of Aragorn, and wished him desperately by his side. But then the forces of Mordor were upon them, and there was no more time for thinking.  
How long the initial flurry of conflict went on, nobody afterwards could remember. Swords flashed in the morning sunlight, and arrows whined as they flew overhead into the ranks of the enemy. In a two-second breathing space, Boromir looked around and found he had moved far from the walls of the city. He was adrift in the middle of the Pelennor, with the battle raging all around him. Then more orcs were upon him, and his sword flashed once again.

All of a sudden a wail of dismay went up from the soldiers of Gondor.

“The Nazgul! The Nazgul!”

Boromir looked up, and saw nine black shapes wheeling backwards and forwards across the sky. The army of Mordor let loose hideous cheers and war cries, and fell back, leaving a space in the centre of the Pelennor. Boromir saw that the foremost of the shapes meant to land in that space, and he raised his sword, ready to meet it.

Down came the Nazgul on its hideous steed. Its landing struck terror into the hearts of many of the men of Minas Tirith, but Boromir stood firm in the face of his destruction. The Wraith turned to face him.  
“Foolish man,” it hissed. “Do you really think that you alone can defeat me, or that your pitiful army can overthrow the Lord of Mordor? He will destroy you all.” The Nazgul drew his sword, a terrible instrument of death, and advanced on Boromir. “Starting with you.”

There was the ringing clash of metal on metal, and Boromir reeled back a couple of paces. He knew he could never hope to win this battle, but he would die trying. The Nazgul laughed a high, cold, cruel laugh, and advanced again. Swords met again and Boromir found himself down on one knee with the Wraith standing over him. Summoning all his strength he thrust forward. His sword passed through the Nazgul’s cloak, and Boromir felt it pierce something that was neither cloth nor armour. As it did so, he was overcome by a painful fatigue, and he swooned. As he fell backwards, he heard a piercing shriek, and could faintly discern a shining silver blade arcing through the air above him. Then the blackness overcame him, and he knew no more.

* * * * *

Denethor sat in the uppermost room of the White Tower. There was a window that overlooked the Pelennor, but it was shuttered, blocking out both the increasing daylight and the sounds of the battle that raged below. Denethor had no need of a window. The glowing orb in front of him showed him all he wished to know. Pictures swam into focus as if emerging from a mist, and just as quickly disappeared again. Denethor watched as the army of Minas Tirith was swallowed up beneath the black tide of Mordor, as that same black tide swarmed towards the city, and as his son fell in combat with a terrible foe. As this last image faded, mist filled the orb and it grew dark. Denethor stood. His face was grey and tired, but his eyes were filled with a strange light.

“So,” he whispered. “Minas Tirith has fallen. Did I not say it would be so?” Slowly he descended from the tower and entered the courtyard. Passing through a secluded door in the shadows under the tower, he disappeared from sight.

* * * * *

“Lay him on the bed,” ordered Aragorn. The soldiers carrying Boromir’s stretcher set it down by the bed, and as gently as possible lifted him on to it. Then they picked up the stretcher again and filed out. Immediately the room was filled with nurses and others skilled in medicine. They flocked round Boromir, all trying in some way to help him. “Leave him,” said Aragorn. “None of your medicines will aid him. He has succumbed to the black breath. Only athelas can help him now.” The women exchanged confused glances. “Kingsfoil,” translated Aragorn. “Have you any in your stores?” One of the women hurried out of the room and returned a few moments later with a small pouch of dried leaves. Aragorn inspected them. “It is not enough, but it will have to do,” he said. “Some of you must go out and collect more. Now!” he said angrily when none of them moved. Several women hurried out of the room. “And you,” he continued, pointing at another nurse. “Fetch me a basin of warm water.” If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Aragorn might have smiled. It was ironic, he reflected, that just a few hours ago he had been trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible, and now he was ordering these people around like they were his subjects. Which they were, he reminded himself.

The woman returned with the basin. Aragorn crushed the athelas leaves and steeped them in the hot water. Placing the basin by Boromir’s head, he let the steam drift over him. To everyone else in the room the fragrance was sweet and refreshing, but Boromir remained lying still and virtually lifeless on the bed. Aragorn hung his head. “I was a fool to think it would work the first time,” he muttered.

Aragorn did not emerge from Boromir’s room for a week. He remained by his bedside, treating him with athelas every two hours. For five days there was no change, and Aragorn began to fear, as he had on their journey to Minas Tirith, that Boromir would never recover. On the sixth evening, after preparing yet another basin of athelas, Aragorn came close to despair. He flung the basin across the room, where it shattered against the wall, and sank down next to Boromir’s bed. He had promised himself he would be strong for Boromir, but he could not stop the tears from coming.

“Boromir, you can’t leave me!” he sobbed. “Not after all we’ve been through. I can’t go through this again, not knowing whether you’ll ever come back to me. Please try, Boromir. I need you.” These last words had an abruptly sobering effect on him, and he suddenly stood up and went over to the window, gazing out into the gathering dusk and wiping the traces of tears from his face. He did not see the tinge of colour that crept into Boromir’s cheeks, the slight parting of his lips to take a deeper breath, or the twitching of his fingers on the blanket.

Aragorn did not know how long he stared out of the window in a trance, but he gradually became aware that someone was saying his name. He turned, thinking that one of the healing men had come in, but there was no one but himself and Boromir in the room. Realisation dawned, and he swung around further. Boromir was watching Aragorn from the bed, an amused smile curling his lips.

“You were miles away,” he said in a croaky voice.

“Boromir,” breathed Aragorn. He rushed over to the bed and gathered the other man up in his arms, hugging him fiercely. “I was so afraid,” was all he could manage to choke out.  
“When I heard that you needed me, I had to come back,” Boromir whispered softly. “The magic words,” he added, with a quiet laugh.

* * * * *

The next day, Boromir felt well enough to sit up in bed. Aragorn spent the morning filling him in on what had happened on the battlefield after he had been overcome. He told him that the death of the Wraith had put fear into the hearts of the enemy. The other Nazgul had flown immediately back to Mordor, and the host, after a half-hearted attempt to continue the battle, had followed suit and retreated. Boromir rejoiced that they had sent the enemy into retreat, but he sensed that Aragorn was holding something back from him. Several times he asked him what it was, but Aragorn always gave him strangely evasive answers. However, early in the afternoon, Aragorn was called away to speak to some of the officials of the city. When he returned, several hours later, he looked grey and tired, and swayed where he stood.

“Aragorn, what is it?” asked Boromir, alarmed to see him looking so ill. “You look as if you’re about to faint. Please sit down and tell me what the matter is.”

Aragorn stumbled across the room and sank into a chair next to Boromir’s bed. “Boromir, when you said that I was keeping something from you, you were right,” he said. “I did not think it wise to tell you as soon as you awoke, for fear it would send you into shock.” He paused, uncertain as to how to proceed. “Have you not wondered why your father has not been to visit you since you awoke?”

“We did not part well the last time we saw each other, before the battle,” Boromir replied. “I had thought it was because he is still angry with me.”

“No, Boromir.” Again Aragorn paused. “Your father is dead,” he finished softly.

Boromir’s face turned almost as grey as Aragorn’s. “No,” he whispered softly. Aragorn sat quietly by, gripping Boromir’s shoulder in silent comfort as the other man wept. At last, Boromir’s sobs came to an end, and he looked up again at Aragorn. “But that does not explain why you suddenly look so ill,” he said. “You must have known about this for days.”

“You are correct,” said Aragorn. “But it is only today that the reason for his death has been discovered. In the topmost room of the White Tower, which was previously always kept locked by Denethor, has been found one of the palantiri, the lost seeing stones of Numenor. But this stone had been corrupted…by Sauron. We believe he has one of the other ones, and has been influencing the images that appeared to your father. We can only assume that on the day of the battle he saw something in the Palantir that made him think Minas Tirith had been defeated and all was at an end. So he decided it was better to die than to face the domination of Sauron.” Boromir looked shocked, but Aragorn held up his hand to stop him saying anything. “There is more,” he said tiredly. “I myself have looked into this palantir. I have seen Sauron himself. Long was the battle, but the stone is under my sway now, and not his. However, he now knows who I am, and that could make the situation all the more dangerous for all of us. Also, I have seen in the stone images of Minas Morgul. The host of that accursed place is still depleted, but Sauron is sending reinforcements. We must strike before those reinforcements arrive, or else an even mightier host will set forth, against which we have no escape. The Captains of Minas Tirith are organising the march and devising strategies even as we speak. We hope to leave as soon as the sun rises on the morrow.”

“We?” asked Boromir.

“Yes,” replied Aragorn. “They have asked me to command the army in your stead.”

“In my stead? Am I not to go then?”

“Boromir, how could you even consider going?” said Aragorn. “You are in no fit state to fight in a battle. Besides, I will not let you put yourself in danger again. It is my fault that you are in your current condition. If I had not been hiding away from everyone, afraid of such a trivial thing as idle speculation, I would have been by your side on the battlefield, and you would not have had to face that…thing…alone. You’ve been through so much over the past few weeks – you need to rest. I say again, I will not let you go.”

“You will not let me…” said Boromir angrily “Who are you to say what I will and will not do? You do not rule me.” He turned away from Aragorn, staring pointedly out of the window.

“But Boromir,” replied Aragorn coldly “I do rule you.” He regretted it the instant he said it, but it was too late.

“Get out,” said Boromir, his voice shaking with fury. “Get out and leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Aragorn softly. “But it’s for your own good.” So saying, he turned on his heel, and left the room.


	5. Visions Of Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir receives an apology from Aragorn, but it may be too late.

Boromir awoke the next morning to a fanfare of trumpets. He felt miserable. He knew that Aragorn had been right, but his stupid pride had kept him from seeing it. The fanfare signified that the army was marching out, so Boromir knew it was too late to see Aragorn and apologise. His depression increased, but he dragged himself out of bed and over to the window to watch the army leave. A mass of black and silver met his eyes, and for a second it was difficult to pick out any one person. Then he saw Aragorn, mounted on a horse, leading the procession. Boromir willed Aragorn to look up at his window, so he might try and convey his feelings without words. But Aragorn did not lift his head, and in a few seconds he had passed out of the gate and out of sight. Boromir slumped down in a chair beside the window. He did not know if he would ever see Aragorn again, and thanks to him, Aragorn had left thinking Boromir didn’t care about him.

As the last sounds of the marching army died away, there came a knock on Boromir’s door. “Come in,” he said dully. One of the healing men entered with a bag and a piece of paper.

“The Lord Aragorn left this for you before he left earlier,” said the man. Seeing Boromir’s mood, he dropped the bag and the paper on the bed and left. Intrigued despite himself, Boromir moved over to the bed and picked up the paper. Unfolding it he discovered it was a note from Aragorn.

‘Boromir,  
I am so sorry about my behaviour last night – it was unforgivable, but you must believe that I did it to protect you. I should be saying this to you in person, but there was no time before I left. You were still asleep and I thought it best not to wake you. I have left you something that will enable you watch our progress, since I knew you would be uneasy having no news. Tell no one you have it. It was believed lost and is still a very great secret. Do not worry – it is no longer dangerous to you as it was to your father. I did not say this last night, but I am sorry for his loss.  
Aragorn’

Boromir tipped the contents of the bag out on to the bed. It was the palantir. As he looked at it, an image of the army of Minas Tirith marching towards Minas Morgul swam into focus, Aragorn leading the way, looking for all the world like a proud and noble King.

Boromir placed the palantir on the table opposite his bed. He did not watch it continuously, but trusted it to show him anything that might be important of its own volition. For two days the orb was mostly filled with a swirling mist, only showing the occasional picture of the army drawing nearer and nearer to Minas Morgul. However, on the third day, Boromir awoke from a light doze to find the palantir displaying images of battle. Instantly he moved over to the table, gazing into the orb’s depths, searching the images for the face he sought. But the orb was not amenable to his search, and Boromir had to endure ever more horrific pictures of the army of Minas Tirith fighting the host of Minas Morgul. The only comfort he drew from them was that the reinforcements didn’t appear to have arrived, and the army of Minas Tirith was slowly but surely overwhelming the enemy.

Suddenly Boromir’s eyes widened with horror and fear, for the Palantir had finally shown him an image of the person he sought, Aragorn. He was in the midst of the battlefield. But instead of fighting orcs, he was surrounded by eight black shapes – the remaining Nazgul. He appeared to have been badly wounded, and did not therefore have the strength to fight them off. Boromir watched in horror as they closed in on Aragorn. But they did not kill him. Instead they bore him up and away from the battlefield – towards the forbidding tower of Minas Morgul that loomed over the scene.

Two days later, the army of Minas Tirith returned to their city. Victory was theirs, but it was bittersweet, for their Captain was lost. They expected that Boromir, now the Steward since his father’s death, would be well enough to address them when they returned. But he had disappeared. The previous morning, one of the healing men had gone to his room only to discover it empty. A quick search revealed that his horse was gone from the stables too. Where he had gone none knew for certain, but several, who had noticed the close relationship between Boromir and Aragorn, feared that he had done something foolhardy and dangerous, and they didn’t expect him to return.

* * * * *

Boromir reigned in his horse. He had reached the crossroads in Ithilien – ahead lay the road that led to the Morgulvale, and he knew it would be unwise to proceed further on horseback. He had met no obstacles on his journey from Minas Tirith – the orcish rearguard that had been left at Osgiliath appeared to have retreated with the main force of the Mordor host after the battle on the Pelennor, and had now been destroyed by the army of Minas Tirith. Still, Boromir was taking no chances. He knew that an evil much more deadly lay ahead, and that he needed to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He dismounted his horse, and gave it a slap on the rump to send it back to its home. The animal needed no encouragement – it had sensed the menacing atmosphere in the air, and hightailed it out of there almost as soon as Boromir had dismounted.

Boromir staggered slightly and went down on one knee by the side of the road. It had taken him less than a day to get to this point, and he had been travelling on horseback, but in his weakened state his body had protested every step of the way, and with no horse to support it, it was ready to give up. But the afternoon was drawing on towards dusk, and Boromir knew that night was the best time to approach his destination. Besides, he was unwilling to halt even for a few hours – not while Aragorn was languishing in that dread place. A traitorous part of Boromir’s mind whispered that it was unlikely that Aragorn was still in Minas Morgul – surely the Dark Lord would have sent forth a summons to have him brought to Barad-dur by now? An even smaller voice taunted him with the idea that Aragorn might even be dead. But Boromir refused to listen to either of these thoughts. Despair and denial battled inside him, but on the surface his single, all-consuming thought was to get to Aragorn, wherever he might be. That thought was enough to get Boromir back on his feet. He stood for a moment until a spell of dizziness passed, and then set off into the gathering darkness.

* * * * *  


Boromir stopped and raised his gaze up to the hillside. There perched the forbidding shape of Minas Morgul. It was a shape that could always be seen from the eastern windows of Minas Tirith, but this close the menace that surrounded it smothered Boromir like a blanket, stifling his breath and laying a weight on a heart that was already heavy with sorrow. Directly in front of him was the bridge that spanned the gorge of the Morgulduin, the small river that flowed down the Morgulvale to join the Anduin just below Osgiliath. Boromir crept across it and started up the steep road that led to the tower, keeping as much in the shadows as possible.

Half an hour later, he stood in the shadows of the gateway of Minas Morgul. Still he had not been challenged, and there were no lights in the tower, but to hope that the place was empty was a foolish wish, and Boromir knew better. He slipped through the gateway and the presence of the Wraiths washed over him like a cold gust of wind, freezing him to his very core. Despair threatened to overwhelm him, but in that moment he thought of Aragorn, and a core of fire sprang to life in his heart, driving away the cold, releasing him from the paralysis that had momentarily gripped him. Keeping to the wall, he crossed the courtyard to the dark door that marked the entrance. He was certain that it would not open, and his attempting it would sound some sort of unearthly alarm. But the door yielded to his touch, opening on to a yawning darkness that displayed no hint of what it shrouded. Pushing aside all fear, Boromir moved into the darkness. Leaving the door open behind him allowed what little moonlight there was inside, illuminating the interior just enough for him to make out indistinct shapes. Common sense told him that the most likely place to find Aragorn was in the dungeons, so he searched for a staircase that would lead him down into the very depths of the castle. After fifteen minutes of searching, with fear growing in his heart every second, he discovered a small opening in the left hand wall, with a spiral staircase leading downwards. He had now come so far from the door that all the moonlight had filtered away, but the staircase was not in darkness. Indeed, a flickering red glow ascended from the depths. Boromir knew it to be the glow of fire, and it lightened his heart a little. But he very well knew that that fire could be providing light for any number of guards, and as he set his foot on the first tread of the staircase, he took care not to make the slightest sound.

Standing in the last curve of the staircase, Boromir held his breath. The fire was indeed providing light for guards – a flaming torch illuminated two orcs standing halfway down the corridor, in front of a heavy wooden door. Boromir knew that two orcs were no match for him, but in his weakened state he took a minute to gather his strength before facing them. But hope was leaping in his heart once again, for these guards at least proved that there was something behind that locked door worth guarding. As he watched, one of the orcs shouted something through a small barred window set into the door. No reply could be heard, but the orc laughed cruelly, firing Boromir’s blood. Taking a last deep breath, he stepped out of the shadows, sword raised. The two orcs let out a harsh cry and ran towards him. The next moments were a blur of clashing steel, and at the end of them Boromir found the two orcs were lying dead at his feet. He stood over them, breathing heavily, and noticed that one of them had a key hanging from its belt. Reaching down, he yanked it from its place, and ran to the now unguarded door.


	6. Race Against Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir manages to rescue Aragorn from Minas Morgul, but their troubles are far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, when I originally wrote this, I chose to have Faramir _not_ be Boromir's brother, but simply the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien...

After a brief struggle with the lock, Boromir heard a sharp click as the key turned. Taking the torch down from its bracket, he pushed the door open. The flickering firelight showed him a small, dirty room. It was empty except for a shape huddled in one corner…Aragorn. Boromir gave a cry of delight and sprang forward. He tossed the torch to one side and knelt down on the floor beside the other man. Aragorn was shivering, his clothes reduced to the barest of rags. In the torchlight the marks of torture were clear on his body. Taking off his cloak, Boromir flung it around Aragorn, at the same time gathering him up into his arms. But Aragorn started to struggle weakly and surprised, Boromir let his arms fall to his sides.

“Leave me alone,” Aragorn muttered. “Too many apparitions have visited me in my dreams, but I see through you now. You are but a ruse of the enemy, hoping that I will be tricked into revealing something. But I will not give in, you will not learn anything from me.”

“No, Aragorn,” said Boromir, putting his arms around him again. “It is I, Boromir. Truly, I have come. Do not push me away – I am as real as you are.”

“Boromir?” questioned Aragorn, peering up at him in the flickering light. “Is it really you?”

“Yes, dearest, I am here,” replied Boromir. “You have nothing to fear anymore.” Aragorn cried out softly and clutched at Boromir. Sobs wracked his body, and Boromir rocked him gently, whispering words of comfort. They sat like that for several minutes, until Aragorn’s sobs died away. Boromir knew they should leave. “Can you stand?” he asked quietly. Aragorn nodded, and Boromir helped him to his feet. But he swayed, falling into Boromir, and Boromir suddenly knew that Aragorn would not be able to walk out of there. The adrenaline coursing through his veins made him forget his own weakness, and as Aragorn stumbled into him Boromir caught him around the shoulders, and bending slightly, placed his other arm behind Aragorn’s knees and lifted him off the floor. He staggered slightly under the weight, but then straightened up and, ignoring the protests of his body, proceeded to make his way out of the cell and back up the spiral staircase.

* * * * *

Boromir laid Aragorn down gently. They were again at the crossroads in Ithilien. Their flight had been slow, and every minute Boromir had expected to hear sounds of pursuit. But none came. The two orcs guarding Aragorn seemed to have been the only ones in the castle. Where the Ringwraiths were Boromir did not know. But he knew that they were on borrowed time, and it would not be long before Aragorn’s disappearance was discovered. As if in answer to his thoughts, a piercing shriek rent the air. It was joined by several others, and Boromir knew their luck had run out. He looked wildly around. It was still some distance to Minas Tirith, and they had no means of reaching the city except on foot. And Boromir was tiring. He knew he would not be able to carry Aragorn all the way to Minas Tirith – the weakness from his recent illness was reasserting itself with a vengeance. Boromir knew their only chance now was to hide in the woods of Ithilien and hope they weren’t found. Rangers of Gondor patrolled these woods, and although they didn’t often come this close to Minas Morgul, Boromir clung to a faint hope that he might find some of them. But first they had to get away from the road. Bending down, he made to pick Aragorn up again, but was stopped by a murmur from the other man.

“Can…walk,” stuttered Aragorn. “Now that I’m away from…that accursed place.” Boromir helped him to his feet, and although he still swayed, he seemed able to stay upright. Slowly, haltingly, they made their way into the woods, all the time fearing to hear noise on the road behind them. They made it several hundred yards before Aragorn’s minimal strength gave out, and he fell to his knees. He seemed incapable of speech, and his whole body was shaking. Boromir knew they would go no further tonight. He half carried, half dragged Aragorn over to a clump of bushes that would screen them from any eyes that might be watching, and settled him on the ground, tucking his cloak securely around him. Boromir sat down next to him. Aragorn was already asleep, and Boromir watched him, thinking how precarious their situation was; his horror and anger growing as he took in Aragorn’s face, anguished even in sleep, and the extent of his wounds, their cause something Boromir didn’t even want to think about. He meant to stay like that all night, watching over Aragorn, unwilling to let his guard drop for a moment. But his exertions of the past few hours overcame him, and within ten minutes he too was sleeping, oblivious to any danger that might lurk nearby.

* * * * *

Boromir woke to the sound of his name and someone shaking him gently. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he looked up. A man dressed in forest green was kneeling over him, worry clear in his eyes. After a second Boromir realised he knew this man – he was a Ranger of Ithilien. “Faramir!” he cried. “It brings joy into my heart to see you on this dark day. You are a friendly face looked for, but without hope.” He struggled to sit upright, but fatigue and weakness overcame him and he sank down again. He contented himself with a question. “What brings you so close to Minas Morgul in this dark time?”

“You, my Lord,” replied Faramir. “Messages from Minas Tirith reached us yesterday afternoon. Your disappearance had been noted, and the officials feared you would head in this direction. We immediately started a search for you, but the hours of darkness slowed us considerably.” He looked at Aragorn, who was still sleeping, and at Boromir’s hand, which in sleep had moved to clasp Aragorn’s. “Against all odds, it seems your quest was successful,” he continued. “The calls of the Ringwraiths have been heard much this night, and it is a miracle you weren’t found. But we must leave immediately. We are under orders to escort you back to Minas Tirith as fast as possible.” Seeing that Boromir was about to protest, he held up his hand. “Horses will be provided for you and Aragorn – you will not need to tire yourself further.”

Boromir allowed himself to be helped on to a horse. He was reluctant to leave hold of Aragorn, but rode his horse as close to the other man’s as possible. Aragorn still did not wake, and his ashen pallor made Boromir fearful – he seemed to be slipping further and further away.

The Rangers led the horses at a brisk pace through the woods of Ithilien. Faramir sent several of his men on ahead to scout for danger, but they returned with nothing to report. After about half an hour of travelling, Faramir turned to Boromir. “I have some tidings that you may wish to hear,” he said. “Although I do not know whether they will gladden your heart or darken it further.” At a sign of assent from Boromir he continued. “My news relates to the Ringbearer. He was with me nine days ago in our retreat of Henneth Annun. This news should have been delivered to Minas Tirith, but almost immediately Frodo left, we were overrun by bands of marauding orcs, no doubt seeking to be rid of us as a threat to them before the great battle on the Pelennor. We did not succeed in driving them away until the day that the host of Mordor fell to the army of Gondor at Minas Morgul. The next day – yesterday – we received the messages commanding us to look for you.” Seeing the strange look on Boromir’s face, Faramir paused. “Was I right to tell you, my Lord?” he asked hesitantly.

Boromir, whose gut had contracted painfully at hearing Frodo’s name, shook himself. “Of course you were right to tell me,” he replied. “It gives me some little hope to know that the Ringbearer still may complete his mission, even if we do not have current tidings of him.” Looking at the still form of Aragorn, he lapsed into silence. His face creased with worry, and Faramir did not speak again.

An hour later they reached the edge of the trees. The crossings of the Anduin were near at hand, and across the plain of the Pelennor Boromir could see the White Tower of Minas Tirith. Normally such a site was enough to raise his spirits, but his growing fear for Aragorn prevented such a rise today. Slowly the horses started downhill to the river crossing. Boromir could see the anxiety on Faramir’s face – they were going to slowly for his liking, and they had now left the shelter of the trees behind. They reached the Anduin safely, but as the horses were halfway across the ford, one of the Rangers pointed up into the sky and gave a warning yell. Boromir looked up and saw a sight that chilled him to the bone. Above his head, as if they had simply been waiting for the company to emerge from cover, eight black shapes were circling – the Nazgul.

Faramir shouted to his men to arm themselves. Many of them already had arrows on the string, ready to fire, but the Nazgul were too high for them to reach. Faramir hastily led the horses up the riverbank. Turning to Boromir, he gave him some hurried instructions. “You must flee as fast as you can to the city – Aragorn must ride on your horse. We will try to hold them back, but it will not be easy. The walls of Minas Tirith are the only real protection now. Ride as fast as you can, and don’t look back.”

Boromir grasped Faramir’s hand briefly. “Thank you, my friend,” he replied. “If we get out of this alive, your reward will be great.” Then, spurring his horse on, Boromir sped away from the Ranger towards the city.

The ride seemed endless. Boromir was fully occupied with keeping Aragorn in the saddle in front of him, but whenever he looked up, Minas Tirith seemed no closer. Hearing an inhuman shriek somewhere behind him, he risked a look over his shoulder. The Rangers of Ithilien had failed in keeping the attention of the Nazgul, and the eight shapes were speeding through the sky, following the racing horse on the ground. Boromir knew it was hopeless – they would catch up before he got anywhere near the city. But he spurred the horse on again, determined that he would not give up until the end.

Suddenly the ground shook, causing the horse to rear up. Boromir was spilled on to the ground, the breath knocked out of him as Aragorn’s limp body landed on top of him. Struggling to catch his breath, he looked around to see the horse climb to its feet and take off in the direction of the city. He and Aragorn were alone and exposed, with no hope of rescue. The inevitability of the situation crashed down on Boromir, but nonetheless he staggered to his feet and drew his sword, determined to defend Aragorn to the death. He looked up as the shriek of the Nazgul rent the air once again, expecting to see them descending towards him. But to his amazement they were speeding back in the direction they had come – towards Mordor. They were already small shapes over the mountains and as he watched one of them seemed to tumble out of the sky, followed by another, and another. All at once, Boromir understood what had happened.

“The quest was successful!” he breathed. “The Ring is destroyed!” In his joy he swung around, and instantly all the happiness was erased from his heart. Aragorn lay there, his body in a crumpled heap from when he had fallen from the horse. He was breathing but shallowly, and his skin had turned a deadly white. Boromir threw himself on the ground beside his fallen companion, and caught him up in his arms. “Aragorn!” he whispered fiercely. “It is all over – Frodo has done it. You cannot leave me now, you cannot!” But Aragorn hung limply in his arms, and Boromir felt a black despair steal over him. Middle-earth was free from the threat of Sauron, but was it all too late?


	7. The Roles Reversed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir watches as Aragorn slips away from him, and an old friend returns.

When Boromir finally reached the gates of Minas Tirith, his body was on the verge of collapse. Out in the middle of the Pelennor he had clasped Aragorn’s body to him, crying aloud, not caring who heard him. How long he stayed like that he did not know, but gradually he had come to his senses, and discovered that hope had not deserted him entirely. For Aragorn breathed still. He slipped further away with every passing minute, but he was not dead yet. Boromir had felt a grim determination steal over him. He would get Aragorn to the city if it killed him. So here he was, staggering over the threshold of his city, weary and in pain, but ignoring both in the pursuit of his goal.

There was much joy in the city, for many had seen the fall of the Nazgul and deduced what it meant. Boromir heard the cheers ringing out, but those nearest to him died away as he came towards them. For a second all the faces around him showed nothing but wonder, for none had expected to see him or Aragorn again. Then they took in Boromir’s distress and weariness, and were instantly busy. Aragorn was taken from Boromir’s arms, and borne away on a litter to the houses of healing. Desperate to follow, Boromir started after it, but fatigue overcame him and he stumbled. He felt arms catch him about the shoulders and place him on a litter of his own. He tried to protest, but his voice wouldn’t obey him. As he slipped into oblivion, his last thought was of Aragorn. “Save him.”

* * * * *

Boromir opened his eyes to see four familiar faces gazing down at him. He had not seen them since before the army had left for Minas Morgul, and for a moment his mind struggled to remember their names. “Legolas, Gimli, Merry, Pippin,” he said at last. “It is good to see you my friends.” All of them smiled but, while the two hobbits looked as if they were bursting with news, the eyes of the elf and the dwarf remained melancholy, recalling to Boromir with force recent events. “How long?” he asked simply.

“It has been two days since you returned,” replied Legolas.

Boromir’s eyes widened in shock. “Aragorn,” he gasped, trying to sit up. “Where is he?”

Legolas placed a comforting but strong hand on Boromir’s shoulder, which prevented him from rising. “He is in another room,” said the elf. “A renowned healer is with him.” At this point Merry and Pippin darted forward, obviously desperate to say something but Gimli silenced them with a look. “We will take you to see him in a minute,” continued Legolas. “But I must warn you Boromir – he is in a bad way. He is suffering under the black breath, as you were, but his imprisonment in Minas Morgul has had a much worse effect on him. The healer is doing everything he can, but only the healing hands of the King really have any chance at doing some good.”

Instantly, Boromir saw the irony and the helplessness of their situation. The healing hands of the King were needed…but they belonged to the man who needed the cure. Boromir looked at his four friends. “Take me to him,” he said.

Leaning heavily on Legolas, Boromir made his way slowly down the corridor to the room where Aragorn lay. He noticed that Legolas and Gimli seemed tense, but thinking they were afraid of his reaction to Aragorn’s state, he pushed it aside. Upon entering the room, the first thing he saw was a tall bearded man dressed in shining white robes bending over a bed. The irrational part of his mind thought for a moment that it was Saruman, but he knew this couldn’t be so. That left only one person. “Gandalf?!” he asked disbelievingly.

The man straightened up and turned around, and Boromir saw that it was indeed Gandalf, whom he had believed dead in the Mines of Moria. “Boromir, son of Denethor,” he said, inclining his head in a gesture of greeting.

“But, but…” stuttered Boromir.

“I see you have many questions to ask me,” said Gandalf. “But they must wait. We have more pressing matters to attend to.” He moved aside, and Boromir saw Aragorn, lying still and straight on the bed, as if dead. With a choking cry he left the support of Legolas’ arm, and rushed forward, collapsing on his knees by the bed. He clasped Aragorn’s hand, and it felt cold and lifeless to his touch. Tears pouring down his cheeks, he looked askance at Gandalf, anxious for reassurance. “He is not dead,” answered the wizard to the silent plea. “But he is close. I do not doubt that Legolas has already told you the problem that lies in his cure. There is nothing I or anyone else can do now except wait...”

* * * * *

The next three days were the closest Boromir had ever come to experiencing hell. They far surpassed his search in Minas Morgul, his own experience of the black breath, or even those days he had spent in a daze after his attempt to take the Ring. Around him, the city of Minas Tirith rejoiced. Despite the fact that their now acknowledged King was lying close to death in the Houses of Healing, the destruction of Sauron was an event that everyone had been hoping for for so long that the celebration could not be stopped. Boromir however, stayed at Aragorn’s bedside. Nothing would induce him to leave. He slept with his head on Aragorn’s blanket, took his meals from a table beside the bed, and kept Aragorn’s hand firmly clasped in his own, as if by contact alone he could pass some of his own life-force into the other man. Gandalf kept up the vigil with him, but someone had to confer with the officials of the city and reassure its anxious people. Legolas, Gimli, and the two hobbits also stayed around, but they were not allowed in Aragorn’s room, and so had to rely on reports from Gandalf when he emerged. The reports were never good. All the usual remedies had been tried, and Boromir still insisted that they keep up regular infusions of athelas, but nothing seemed to be working. Aragorn still lay as still as if he were made out of stone – only the shallow rise and fall of his chest showed that he was still alive.

On the morning of the fourth day, Boromir awoke to find the sun just rising in the east. Beams of sunlight shot out over the mountains of Mordor - which no longer seemed so threatening as they once had – and touched the walls of Minas Tirith, illuminating the White Tower, so it shone like a spike of burning silver. One of these beams entered Aragorn’s room in the Houses of Healing, and Boromir watched in wonder as it lit up Aragorn’s face with its touch. Never had his face looked more kingly than at that moment. But there was also an expression of peace on his brow, and Boromir suddenly had a feeling that this was the end. A small part of his heart told him he should be happy that Aragorn’s suffering would be over, but the much larger part rebelled, crying out that Aragorn’s time in this world was not finished, there was still much for him to do, although Boromir knew this was just an excuse to cover up his own selfish wants.

“No!” he cried aloud. “I will not let you take him!” To whom he cried he did not know – he only hoped that someone was listening. “He means so much to so many people. He means so much to me! You cannot take him.” He had started to his feet with the beginning of his outburst, but with his last words he sunk down again into his chair. Unaware of the similarity of his situation to the one Aragorn had found himself in when Boromir himself was ill with the black breath, Boromir laid his head down on the bed next to his and Aragorn’s clasped hands. “I need him,” he whispered.

Sometime later, Boromir lifted his head to see that the sun had gone behind a patch of cloud, and the ray of light no longer illuminated Aragorn’s face. His heart cried out in pain, thinking that his plea had gone unheard, that Aragorn had been taken from him. But no – Aragorn lived still. His chest rose and fell in the regular rhythm of breathing. If anything, it seemed a little stronger than previously. Boromir held his own breath, trying to determine whether he was seeing things, or whether Aragorn really was a little better.

At that moment, the door opened and Gandalf entered. He took one look at Boromir’s tense body and wide-eyed gaze, and crossed the room swiftly to the bed. Bending over Aragorn, he too listened to the rhythm of his breathing, and also tested the temperature of his skin. After a second, his face split into a wide smile. “He will live,” Gandalf proclaimed. “His skin warms – he is no longer in the grip of the Black Breath. The Valar have seen fit not to take him this time, and now it only remains for him to complete the final stage of his journey to cross the threshold and return to us.”

* * * * *

It took another two days for Aragorn to ‘complete his journey’. Boromir’ feelings swung between wild joy that Aragorn would be all right, to deep despair whenever he considered the remote possibility that Gandalf might be wrong. He still would not leave the room, and the time not spent sitting by Aragorn and watching over him, he spent pacing backwards and forwards in an agony of anticipation.

Finally, on the afternoon of the second day, it happened. Boromir was sitting next to the bed gazing absently out of the window, his hand in its customary position curled around Aragorn’s. Suddenly he stiffened. Had he just felt a slight pressure on his fingers, or had he imagined it? Leaning close to the bed, he said softly, “Aragorn. Aragorn can you hear me?” For a few seconds there was no response, then a soft groan reached Boromir’s ears, followed by a hoarse whisper of his own name.

“Boromir.”

“I am here. I am here,” replied Boromir. “You are safe now. There is nothing to fear any more.” At that point his voice faltered and he could say no more. Aragorn’s eyelids flickered and then opened, his eyes searching the room for Boromir. When they finally lighted on him, the look that was exchanged between the two men was worth a thousand words. Mutely, Boromir tightened his grip on Aragorn’s hand even as he felt Aragorn doing the same. Tears welled up in his eyes as he gazed down at the man who meant everything to him, and he knew that everything was going to be all right.


	8. To Be Needed...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn tries to find some peace.

The weeks passed, and the celebrations continued. The whole of Middle-earth rejoiced that they were free from the evil that had oppressed them for so long. But Aragorn and Boromir paid little attention to the celebrations. Although Aragorn had been called back from the brink, he still needed time to fully recover, and once again Boromir would not leave his side. So the two men rejoiced in each others’ company, spending their days deep in conversation, getting to know each other better, and renewing their bond that had nearly come so close to being broken.

But eventually Aragorn’s strength returned, and it was time for him to think of the future. His claim to the throne of Gondor had now long been acknowledged, and the people of his land were clamouring for his coronation. Boromir wished him to wait a little longer, to ensure that he was completely better, but Aragorn knew that he could not keep his people waiting any longer.

The date of the coronation was to be May Day. On the morning of the event, Boromir woke early. Unable to return to sleep, he rose and made his way out to the courtyard, hoping to gain refreshment from the cool morning air before the flurry of activity began. But when he emerged into the open, he discovered that he was not the only one awake.

Aragorn stood leaning against the eastern wall of the courtyard, looking out over the Pelennor. He was already dressed in his ceremonial garb, but Boromir could see he looked tense.

“Do not worry. Everything will go smoothly,” he said, thinking that Aragorn must be nervous about the coronation. But as he walked over and stood next to the other man, he saw that Aragorn’s eyes were fixed on something away in the distance. Turning his head to follow Aragorn’s gaze, Boromir perceived that he was staring at the dark shape of Minas Morgul, perched on the other side of the valley. “Come away,” said Boromir, placing his hand on Aragorn’s arm. “Do not let it trouble you any longer.”

“No,” replied Aragorn, withdrawing his arm. “I must confront it. For nearly four weeks I have tried to ignore the fear inside me, deliberately not looking to the east so that I might not have to face it. But a King cannot be afraid of such things.” He laughed, but it was without humour. “After all, it is all over. There is nothing to be frightened of any more. So why do I feel so afraid?” The words were uttered in anger, but when Aragorn turned to look at him, Boromir could see the deep fear in his eyes. Putting his hand out again, he drew Aragorn to him. Aragorn tried to resist at first, but eventually he gave up, collapsing into Boromir’s arms. Boromir could hear muffled sobs. Gently he led Aragorn away from the wall to a bench under a tree. As they sat, Aragorn drew away. Sitting with his face turned to the ground, he began to speak.

“It was terrible. The oppression nearly killed me on its own. I think my guards were the only two creatures alive in the whole place – the only ones left after the battle. But there were the others – the Wraiths. I was confined to that cell the whole time, except for when they spoke to me. Then I was dragged up to the tower and surrounded by them. Never all of them at once, but even one terrified me to my very soul. They asked me who I was. Since seeing me in the palantir, Sauron was apparently very worried about my identity. Then they asked me what I knew of the Ring and its bearer. When I would not answer, they set the orcs to work on me…” His voice faltered. “I cannot speak of that, even now. But still I do not believe I told them anything…it is hard to remember. Only thoughts of you…” A quick glance at Boromir. “Only they kept me going, and even they weren’t pleasant. All I could think of was the angry manner of our parting, and my harsh and arrogant words to you. I had almost given up…and then you came. I was so afraid you were not real – that you were a trick to make me tell what I knew. But you were not. You saved me.” Aragorn stopped speaking, and took a deep shuddering breath. He turned to look at Boromir. “You saved me,” he repeated simply.

Boromir stared at Aragorn in shock. He could not believe that the other man had been carrying all that horror by himself. “You should have told me this sooner,” he said.

“I couldn’t,” replied Aragorn. “I was so afraid. Both of what happened, and my inability to face it. I was scared that weakness of Isildur ran in my blood also, that I was not fit to be King. So I pushed it all aside, and hid from it. But today I awoke and knew that I could no longer do that. I realised that I am the King, but that I had to confront my fears before I could truly believe it.”

“Oh Aragorn,” sighed Boromir. “How much you have suffered. And I, unable to help you.”

“How can you say such a thing?” asked Aragorn, amazed. “If it were not for you, I would still be languishing in the dungeons of the enemy. Or, more likely, I would be dead. And both before that, and every day since you have helped me. You once told me that I had been like a guiding beacon to you, and I cannot think of any better words to describe what you have been to me. You have guided me through so much self-doubt and pain and anguish. Without you, I would not be half the man I am, and then I truly would not be fit to be King.” Grasping his shoulders, Aragorn pulled Boromir to him, and kissed him fiercely on the lips. “You will always be by my side, Boromir son of Denethor,” Aragorn whispered softly. “I need you.”

Boromir sighed again, and settled into Aragorn’s embrace. Soon, he knew, officials would come to escort the future King to his coronation, but for now they were alone, and that was to be cherished. No words were needed to spoil the moment, and a contented silence descended. Boromir looked up at Aragorn, his eyes conveying everything that needed to be said. “I need you too.”


End file.
